Even her shadow could pollute the water. Samata woke everyday while the stars still
sparkled over the open fields and the moon smiled over her mud hut. She walked 30 minutes to a designated well
and as she returned with arms lugging two buckets full of water, the sun
usually winked at her and welcomed her to a new day. Each day she balanced the buckets and put one
determined foot in front of another, welcoming the freshness of the earth, the
clarity of the sky, the golden smile of the sun while her low caste followed
her limply in the shadows.
She worked in the fields tilling, toiling, sowing or
harvesting shoulder to shoulder with her husband and his family. The overseers and the landowners ordered with
obscenities, pushed her frail body to its limits and insulted their low status
every hour, but she trudged with her veiled head and back bent low. Her eyes focused on the task, reminding her soul
of her humanity and dreaming of a golden future.
Illiterate and scorned, she woke everyday with renewed
determination. Saving every paisa from
the fieldwork or even skipping meals she insisted her children attend
school. Months evolved to years, her
bent back stayed low in pain, her thick dark hair boasted white strands as her
children graduated first from school, then college until securing respectable
office jobs.
Landlords in the field continued to discriminate with
constant reminders of her low caste but she turned a deaf ear to them. Her simple life continued until one day, her
daughter ran into the hut with tear streaked red cheeks, bruises on her body
and tears in her sari.
To be continued….
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